Don Gutteridge - Bloody Relations

Your devoted nephew,

Marc

P.S. The only discordant note at this morning’s extravaganza, for me, was the appearance at Lady Durham’s side of a young gentleman who flinched at every cannon shot and bugle blast. My heart went out to him. When I asked who he might be, a man beside me said, “That’s Lady Durham’s nephew, Handford Ellice, and a burden he’s been to her ever since they come here.” Unfortunately for the curious, no more was said, but I subsequently learned that he is the son of the commercial adventurer Edward Ellice, a man with his own bold interests in our fair colony. Strange that his offspring should appear so timid.

A few hours later, in the household of Mr. and Mrs. Marcus Edwards, Charlene Huggan, the maid and all-purpose servant, was giggling so heartily she could barely remove the last of the pins from the hem of her mistress’s gown without damage to herself or the lady in question.

“If you don’t stop teasing the girl, we won’t get to Spadina before midnight, at which time-according to the brothers Grimm-we all turn into pumpkins.” Marc did not seem displeased that both women turned at this witticism to notice how resplendent he looked in his top hat and tails. He did half a pirouette, just in case.

Beth fixed him with that blue-eyed stare of hers. “Am I Cinderella or one of the ugly stepsisters?”

Charlene giggled again, and spat pins in several directions.

“With that look, you could pass for the heartless stepmother.”

“Don’t she do the dress proud, sir?” Charlene stood back and gave Beth and her ball gown a worshipful scrutiny. “And missus thinkin’ she couldn’t put herself beside any of them ladies up at Spadina!”

“The only genuine lady up there will be Lord Durham’s wife, who was born a lady and whose father was prime minister of the United Kingdom.” Marc leaned back and surveyed Beth like a tailor approving a perfect seam. “The rest of them, Charlene-and you mustn’t ever forget this-are just ordinary women dressed up as titled ladies and hoping to pass as such. And their husbands likewise.”

“As ladies?” Charlene’s eyes danced impishly and she gave Beth a conspiratorial glance.

“As pretend gentlemen ,” Marc said patiently. “And Mrs. Edwards, as usual, will be herself in that company and, for all that, will be thought a true lady.”

“Why don’t you try flatterin’ me?” Beth asked with a cautious peek in the mirror that Charlene had set against the nearest wall.

“If I didn’t know better, darling, I’d accuse you of carelessly droppin’ yer g ’s.”

Charlene, who could have stood and listened to this conjugal banter all evening, was rudely brought back to her duty by the sound of a carriage drawing up outside the house. “It’s here!” she cried, and raced to the window.

Marc went over to Beth and placed a woollen shawl across her bare shoulders. “I’m glad you decided to come after all,” he said with sudden seriousness.

“So am I,” she said. “I know how much it means to you to meet Lord Durham.”

“I truly believe he is the only person in Christendom who can save this dominion and begin to salve the wounds that have been inflicted.”

“Even though he’s a Whig,” Beth said, smiling.

Marc smiled back. “I’ve come a long way, haven’t I?”

Beth squeezed his arm, and they walked briskly towards the hired gig outside their front gate. Only Beth noticed that as her husband moved like the born gentleman he was to the waiting vehicle, there was still a perceptible limp in the left leg-a memento of the personal injury he had suffered in the civil turmoil of the past nine months.

When the invitation to the ball at Spadina had arrived five days before (Durham’s advance men had been busy orchestrating his tour through the Upper Province), Beth had simply refused to take it seriously. “It has to be a mistake,” she informed Marc when he got back home from his afternoon walk. “We don’t hobnob with the Family Compact-or any other compact.” Marc noted that their surname had been spelled correctly and the messenger from Government House knew perfectly well where Sherbourne Street was. Indeed, most of the town knew exactly where the “hero of St. Denis” had taken up residence with his bride in the middle of May, even though he no longer graced the thoroughfares of the capital in his officer’s uniform with its glittering sabre and the green-feathered shako of the 23rd Regiment of Foot. “Invalided out” was the story in circulation, despite Marc’s futile attempts to scotch it: he had bought out his commission as a gentleman was obliged to do and had abandoned his military career without regret and with good reason, in his view. Soon after, he and Beth had purchased the substantial stone cottage on Sherbourne Street, near the outskirts of the town proper, complete with barn and extensive garden.

Marc’s assumption that the invitation was the work of Colonel Margison, the kindly commanding officer who had attended Marc and Beth’s wedding in full regalia, was borne out the following day. But Beth’s initial no was as unshakeable as it was succinct. Marc gently reminded her that she would not be alone or unbefriended at the gala. Major Owen Jenkin, their best man and faithful ally, would be in attendance alongside the colonel and several other officers whom she had met at the wedding breakfast and taken up willingly as dancing partners afterwards. Among the local ladies there would be perhaps a dozen whom she knew from her days as co-proprietress of the millinery shop on King Street, an enterprise Beth and her aunt Catherine had expanded to include dressmaking, utilizing the designs and sewing talent of Mrs. Rose Halpenny. Alas, the Rebellion and its fallout had caused its closure, and Aunt Catherine had returned to her native United States.

“I’ll wager that a third of the gowns up there will be products of your own enterprise,” Marc had declared, a tad too effusively.

“And I’m sure the good ladies of Torytown will be happy to see their dressmaker do-si-doing with their hubbies,” Beth had shot back, silencing him.

A day later he tried another tack. After luncheon with Major Jenkin at the mess in Fort York (his first trip back since his discharge), Marc informed Beth that the principal reason for the colonel’s encouraging Marc’s attendance at the ball was to have him meet and, with luck, talk to Lord Durham.

“What in ever for?” was Beth’s disingenuous response.

Marc plunged ahead. “Lord Durham is in Toronto for four days only. Colonel Margison feels that he should meet a broadly representative group of citizens and be exposed to a wide spectrum of opinion. In fact, the governor himself has asked that this be so. The colonel has put forward my name as someone to be consulted, and feels that if Lord Durham has an opportunity to meet me, even informally at the gala, he might decide to include me in his official consultations.”

“I don’t suppose yer ‘wide spectrum’ includes citizens who drop their g ’s or who aren’t the right sex to vote.”

“This is serious business,” Marc said, miffed.

“Don’t pout; I know it is. And I know you’ve got a lot more sense to talk than most of those Tories with half a brain and twice the prejudice. So go on up there by yourself. Talk sense. You don’t need a dancing partner to distract you.”

Marc knew when he was defeated and when to keep his counsel. To his surprise, though, that night as they were getting into bed, Beth announced quietly that she would go. They both knew the real reason behind her initial reluctance, and thus he appreciated the courage her acceptance entailed. Beth was as bright and politically astute as any gentleman likely to be found fawning over Lord Durham. She had operated a farm in the rural districts where the folly of government policies were keenly felt, then helped to found a successful business in the heart of Toronto’s commercial district. Marc could not help appreciating too that she was more naturally beautiful than any of the overdressed and cosmetically improved chatelaines of the town, their native accents no less flat-vowelled or uninflected than her own. But she was most comfortable in her own home and especially in her garden, where she had spent her days since late May preparing the neglected soil and planting spring vegetables. In the house she worked alongside Charlene, whom she thought of more as a favoured niece than a servant. She had no desire to mix with her so-called betters, abashed by the notion that she might be mistaken for one of them.